


Wash the ledgers clean

by sburbanite



Series: Divine Comedy, Hellish Angst [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley Has an Anxiety Disorder (Good Omens), Crowley is more damaged than he'll let himself admit, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Marriage Proposal, Recovery, Some smut but it's not the focus, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-12 20:00:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20570042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sburbanite/pseuds/sburbanite
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale both have a lot of emotional baggage to overcome, so they've decided to pack it all into the Bentley and head out of London.After all they've been through, haven't they earned a holiday?Follows on from Palimpsest.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As penance for traumatising them so badly in Palimpsest, here is some fluffy, hurt/comfort follow up. 
> 
> For new readers, all you need to know is that Aziraphale was discorporated and had his memories of Crowley erased. Crowley rescued him, naturally. Now it's Aziraphale's turn to help his demon recover.
> 
> (Title from Typhoon's album Offerings, which inspired the original fic)

Aziraphale cleared his throat quietly, and as always, Crowley got the hint. The demon was sprawled across the bookshop's sofa, fidgeting. He'd been fidgeting for hours; playing little games on his phone with the beeping sounds switched on, tip-tapping one painted fingernail on the floor in time with whatever YouTube video he was watching, and now picking flakes of black nail varnish off onto the sofa cushions. It had been fine while there were customers. Aziraphale rather appreciated the effect that Crowley's particular brand of audio sandpaper had on people earnestly trying to buy books. It was almost therapeutic watching the little sounds burrow into their brains, under their skin, until it was all they could think about. Focusing on Proust first editions became physically impossible. That day alone, Crowley had driven away five people, one of whom had visited previously and been most insistent about purchasing a book Aziraphale had no intention of parting with. It was very sweet, not that he'd ever phrase it that way out loud.

The problem was that there hadn't been a customer for forty-five minutes, and Crowley was still doing it. He stopped picking at his nails when Aziraphale glanced up from his ledger, his expression vaguely guilty. Aziraphale sighed. What he'd taken for deliberate, mildly demonic abrasiveness was something else entirely. Crowley was worrying again.

It had only been a month since Aziraphale had been back in his shop; back in his body and his home and the arms of his demon. Aziraphale had spent it cleaning out some of the spiders that had made a claim on the bookshop in his short absence and making sure the catalogue was up to date. All of it seemed to be present and correct, save for a volume of Keats poems he was rather attached to. Crowley had spent it, well. He'd spent it stalking in the shadows, circling Aziraphale protectively just on the edge of his peripheral vision. More than once, he'd given Aziraphale the shock of his life when he popped up from where he'd been hidden away in a part of the shop, silent and still, to badger the angel into making him a coffee. 

It was only natural that Crowley would be on edge, Aziraphale knew that. He'd lost his angel twice, had dealt (or not dealt) with the idea of an eternity of loneliness on two separate occasions. It must have been exhausting.

The thing was that Crowley was  _ always _ on edge, even when Aziraphale did his level best to distract him. Historically, his arsenal of demon soothing tools had been restricted to alcohol, alcohol, and pretending to be scandalised by Crowley's latest demonic achievements over yet more alcohol. Nowadays he had much, much more to work with. 

Even when Crowley shivered and shook apart for him, gasping and pleading so sweetly it lit Aziraphale up with love from the inside out, his hands still trembled afterwards. 

"I think I'm going to close up for the day," Aziraphale said, standing and stretching his back out after hours spent hunched behind his desk, "could you get the sign for me, dear?"

Crowley did so, flipping the sign to closed, and Aziraphale watched him stalk across the bookshop it was plain to see that he was trying very hard to be nonchalant about it. A few thousand years of watching Crowley pretend not to care had sharpened his bullshit detection skills to a razor's edge. 

"Come and sit with me, please," he said, beckoning Crowley over to the sofa.

"Uh oh, you've got your serious voice on. Never a good sign."

Crowley slouched over and flopped down next to Aziraphale, arranging his limbs haphazardly. 

"Nothing's wrong, my dear," Aziraphale said calmly, taking Crowley's hand and squeezing, "at least not on my end. Quite the opposite, in fact." 

"Then what's all this about? You don't use the "we need to talk" voice when it's nothing, angel."

Aziraphale sighed again. Sometimes Crowley was too sharp for his own good. One of these days he'd cut himself in a way not even Aziraphale could heal.

"What it's about is that I'm worried about you, darling. I haven't seen you relax properly in weeks, it can't be good for you to be wound up so tightly for so long."

"Shut up, angel, I'm fine, I slept for eleven hours last night. I've spent all day on this bloody sofa. Any more relaxed and I'd stop breathing."

"Crowley, don't lie to me, please."

Crowley's face tightened slightly; a shift in the angle of his eyebrows, the set of his jaw.

"I'm not lying. I don't lie to you, Aziraphale. You know I've done bugger-all for weeks. I haven't so much as stuck a 50p to the pavement."

Aziraphale felt the tremor in Crowley's hand then, and felt him force it away. He reached up and removed Crowley's sunglasses tenderly, checking for any signs that he was overstepping. Behind them, Crowley's eyes were yellow from edge to edge. It had happened a few times in the last few days, and Aziraphale would have bet his halo that that was a very bad sign indeed.

"Crowley," he said, stroking his cheek, "you don't have to pretend to be okay, my dear. That's the point of what we are to each other. When it's  _ us _ we never have to pretend."

"And here I was thinking this was the point," Crowley said, leaning in close and kissing Aziraphale deeply. There was a keen edge of desperation to it, a silent plea for Aziraphale to drop this line of questioning, but Aziraphale steeled himself against it. It wasn't going to be that easy. 

Reluctantly, Aziraphale pulled away.

"Yes, well. That's certainly a big part of it," he said, aware that his face was started to flush, "one of the best parts. But also that we can be honest about how we're feeling. And, my dear, you don't seem to be feeling yourself."

Crowley huffed, flopping back against the cushions and closing his eyes.

"Ngh," he said.

Aziraphale waited, silent, and held on tight to his demon's hand.

"Look, it's fine. I'm fine. It's just hard to relax when the last time I did somebody  _ murdered _ you."

"That's...fair."

If he was being honest, Aziraphale would admit to being more than a little anxious himself. He could count on one hand the times he'd left the bookshop over the past few weeks, and every time he did Crowley's old sword-stick had come with him. There was something reassuring about having a sword again after all these years, and Aziraphale felt slightly dirty about that. He had been a soldier, once, and done things he wasn't proud of. The only upshot of toting a sword about was more of those, more guilt and pain, but the alternative was worse. Letting anyone hurt Crowley wasn't an option. 

"I've been thinking we could do with a bit of a change," Aziraphale said, patting Crowley's leg, "We could get out of London for a while, go somewhere with fewer…" Aziraphale glanced around the bookshop, eyeing the layers of overlapping protection wards Crowley had installed in the wake of Aziraphale's second discorporation, "...murderous associations."

"Are you asking me to go off with you, angel?" Crowley said, smiling softly. When he smiled like that, eyes crinkling at the corners and lips curled imperceptibly, Aziraphale felt his heart skip a beat.

"Why, I do believe I am. Maybe we could start with a nice hotel and work our way up to a different solar system, hmm?"

"I like the sound of that."

Crowley's face fell, suddenly tense again. 

"Er. I, uh. Need to get some stuff from my flat, though. Before we leave. And sort the plants out. Sorry."

Neither of them had been back to Crowley's flat since Aziraphale had died there. It wasn't as if there was angelic blood all over the floor, exactly, but the atoms of Aziraphale's old corporation were still mingled with the dust and soil and air inside it. Crowley had been held there, beaten senseless and forced to watch his angel's life fade into oblivion. 

"Are you sure? We can't just...miracle up some sprinklers for them?"

"Nah," Crowley shook his head, "they've already got those. But if I don't let them know what I  _ expect _ when I come home the little sods'll get lazy."

Aziraphale smiled a pale shadow of a smile. There was no way he was going to let Crowley out of his sight for the foreseeable future.

"Well, we'll go together then."

***

The drive over to Mayfair was unusually subdued. Crowley drove fast, possibly even faster than usual, but Aziraphale didn't say a word. After everything that had happened, he was strangely unafraid of Crowley's terrible driving. 

They sat for a while, parked on the double yellow lines outside Crowley's building. 

"I really do think they'll leave us alone this time," Aziraphale said, trying to make the words sound as certain as he wanted them to be, "I mean, Hastur hasn't any reason to bother us again, and Gabriel...well, She implied he'd be getting a bit of a talking to."

"Oh, a  _ talking to _ . Poor bastard," Crowley said, sarcastically.

"You know what I mean. She seemed displeased about the whole affair. Not very Archangelic behaviour."

"Yeah, not like trying to execute a fellow angel with hellfire. That's very on-brand."

Aziraphale frowned at him, a little  _ you're not helping _ scowl that Crowley was intimately familiar with.

"I'm just saying," he continued, "if he didn't get in trouble for  _ conspiring with hell _ to execute you _ , _ then I doubt a bit of discorporation and memory altering between colleagues is going merit a disciplinary meeting."

Aziraphale sniffed. 

"We aren't  _ colleagues _ . Not anymore," he said, snippily.

Crowley winced.

"No, 'course not. Sorry, angel."

"My dear, if I never see Gabriel again it will be too soon. I wish retirement from Heaven had come with a gold watch rather than two consecutive murder attempts, but beggars can't be choosers."

"Three, if you count the bookshop fire," Crowley deadpanned.

"That was more of an accidental suicide, if we're splitting hairs."

They sat for a second or two, and then burst out laughing at the absurdity of it all. If you don't laugh, you'll cry, Aziraphale thought to himself, and they'd done enough crying of late to last the next few decades. 

"Let's go get your things, dear boy," he said, stepping out of the Bentley and into the crisp November air. Aziraphale's tartan overnight bag was already on the back seat, along with some biscuits for the road. He didn't have a destination in mind yet, no reservations to keep, but they'll go where the fancy takes them. Aziraphale's mind wandered to the seaside, with gulls wheeling overhead as the sun sank into the sea. Or perhaps Bath, in all its elegant pastel glory. He shivered a little. Anywhere but the grey of London would do.

"Right," Crowley said, staring mournfully up at his flat. Aziraphale took his hand, holding it steady.

The door opened to Crowley's touch, as usual, and aside from the extra film of dust over everything, there really was no sign that anything bad had happened there. Crowley went in first, hastily scuffing out the runes that had held Aziraphale long enough for Hastur to make his killing blow. There was blood on Crowley's throne, which Aziraphale quickly waved away. With that dealt with, it was really just a sparse, sad, cavernous space. It was hollow, Aziraphale thought, like the inside of an Easter egg. From the outside it looked flashy and expensive, the kind of flat any stockbroker would gleefully stab the competition in the eye over. Inside, though, it was just empty.

Crowley strode from room to room, checking and re-checking. No demons jumped out from the shadows, no angels revealed themselves dramatically. Eventually he stood, glancing this way and that, in the centre of the living room.

"Crowley, dear," Aziraphale said, leading him to the uncomfortable leather sofa, "it's alright. Nothing here besides us and some very questionable statuary."

"You love it," Crowley laughed softly, "I thought your head was going to explode when you first saw the wrestling one."

"Only because it's terribly inaccurate," Aziraphale said, smirking, "Everyone knows good always triumphs over evil."

"Not always." Crowley winked. He was wearing his sunglasses, but Aziraphale could always tell.

"Yes, well. Everybody wins in the end."

"Yesss they do."

Aziraphale kissed the big, stupid grin off Crowley's face. 

"The sooner you get your things, darling, the sooner we can find a hotel room."

"Okay," Crowley said, "Could you go grab the bag from under the bed?"

"Certainly."

Aziraphale set off for the bedroom with a happy little wiggle. The bag under the bed contained what could generously be described as "supplies." 

When he was sure the angel was gone, Crowley reached under the sofa and pulled out a small velvet box. He stashed it in his jacket pocket with trembling fingers. 

*** 

Aziraphale read the paper and listened to Crowley terrorize his plants. It was almost a kind of therapy, or at least Aziraphale hoped it was. He'd tried keeping up with human psychology, but had gotten lost around the time they started measuring the bumps on each others' skulls. At any rate, when he was finished Crowley seemed calmer.

"Right then, angel. Where are we headed?"

"Wherever you like, dearest. Somewhere with nice scenery, perhaps?"

"Oh, the scenery'll be pretty wherever we go, at least from where I'm sitting."

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and stuck his paper under one arm. There would be time to do the crossword now that the shop was all tucked up for the winter, put away in mothballs until their return, and wasn't that a thrill. If he was feeling daring he might even make an utter pig's ear of the Sudoku.

"Ready?" He said, handing Crowley the bag he'd liberated from under the bed. Crowley didn't seem to have picked up anything else, which on a better day Aziraphale would have found suspicious. 

Today, though, he was absorbed by the haunted look on Crowley's face and the tension in the long, lean lines of him. 

They needed a break, both of them did, and he would be damned if they didn't get one.

"Yep," Crowley said, and sashayed out the door. There was a spring in his step Aziraphale had sorely missed, and when the door slammed shut behind them neither angel not demon looked back.

  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

They began with a spa hotel in Surrey, a great sprawling mansion that had belonged to some Duke or Earl or other and had been converted to modern, five star luxury. Aziraphale didn't think it had been one of the nasty ones, the ones who stole food from the mouths of their tenants so they could buy a little more favour at court. If it was, he reasoned, it hardly mattered now that whoever it was had been dead for hundreds of years. All of their carefully hoarded opulence was available for anyone with a few hundred quid to spare, which was a lovely kind of justice.

The place had something for both angel and demon alike. For Aziraphale, there were thick, deep carpets to sink his feet into, a Michelin star restaurant and dark wood furniture that recalled a grander age. For Crowley, there was a very large, very thin television, room service, and a bathroom with more shining chrome than the Bentley.

The bed was rather wonderful, too, Aziraphale thought to himself as he lay down on it, bags abandoned in a corner and shoes kicked off, although not half as wonderful as the demon who was currently making an appreciative whistle at the minibar.

"One of my ideas, these were," he said, retrieving a large bottle of Dom Perignon that was very surprised to find itself there, "Nobody can resist tiny bottles of wine, it's impossible. The best part is they leave you sober enough to realize what a huge dent you've just left in your wallet."

"Very clever, dear," Aziraphale said, beaming. 

"Well, y'know. That's me."

Aziraphale pictured all of the arguments over hotel bills, surprise credit card statements and reprimands for overspending on business trips that Crowley had indirectly caused. The best part was that he hadn't forced anyone to do anything. Nobody did temptation quite like Crowley.

"What're you smiling at?" Crowley asked, sending the champagne cork flying with a satisfying pop and a small fountain of bubbles.

"I  _ was _ smiling at you," Aziraphale said, pouting slightly, "but then you started spilling Champagne all over the floor. I know you know how to open it properly, honestly."

Crowley shrugged.

"When have I ever done anything  _ properly _ , angel?"

He poured two glasses and handed one to Aziraphale, who patted the bed next to him until Crowley joined him. 

"Never," he sighed happily, "and for that, I am eternally grateful."

"Soppy bastard," Crowley said, sipping his drink while avoiding Aziraphale's gaze.

The angel took Crowley's hand and pressed it to his lips, enjoying the way Crowley blushed. The slightest bit of affection would set it off, any reminder that Aziraphale loved him, was in love with him, and wanted nothing less than to spend eternity with him.

"You'd better stop that if you want to get dinner at the "ten Michelin stars, 19 courses and a bag of flavoured oxygen" restaurant downstairs"

Aziraphale laughed.

"Molecular gastronomy has to be all their own, doesn't it? Can you remember when they first discovered yeast? I couldn't have been more proud!"

"Pride, angel? Really?" Crowley winked knowingly.

" _ Excited _ , then. But as for the restaurant, is that what you want, my dear? It's been a long day, after all, and I don't mind one bit if we just sack it off."

He felt the hand in his tense, ever so slightly. Crowley did his damnedest to pretend he was fine even when he wasn't. When everything had been tension and life-or-death, when they could've been killed or worse for letting their feelings show, that had been one of his greatest skills. It had let Aziraphale pretend the heartache was one sided, had kept him unaware of the damage he was doing. 

And, oh, the damage went deep. 

Aziraphale kissed Crowley's knuckles and waited for him to put himself first. Self-sacrifice was a hard habit to break.

"Are you sure?" Crowley said, eventually.

His eyes were unreadable, searching Aziraphale's face for signs of disappointment.

"Absolutely, darling boy," Aziraphale smiled, "Let's have a look at the room service menu, shall we? Oh! We could even eat in the bath if we time it right, I've never done that before."

Crowley grinned like a loon as Aziraphale fussed over the menu, looking for things that would be easy to eat one-handed. 

"We'll do the restaurant tomorrow, though, yeah? Taster menu for lunch?" Crowley said, squeezing Aziraphale's hand tightly as the angel picked up the phone to call reception, "'Cause you're mad if you don't think I want to watch you eat hotdog soufflé with a side of mustard lollipops."

"Well, when you put it like that," Aziraphale said, grinning, "how can I refuse?" 

***

Aziraphale was made in Heaven, but right now heaven was a huge bathtub brimming with bubbles, surrounded by empty finger-food plates and champagne flutes, and containing one very relaxed demon. Crowley always reacted this way to heat, something left over from his reptilian origins no doubt, but Aziraphale felt a swell of pride that this creature of nerves and fierce, protective anxiety would let himself unwind so completely in his arms. 

"How are you feeling, dear?" He asked, holding Crowley even closer. 

"Mmmh," Crowley sighed, pressing his face against Aziraphale's bare chest.

His hair fanned out in the water, swirling like ink or some delicate sea creature and clinging to his shoulders and his angel alike. Aziraphale ran his fingers through it, rubbing Crowley's scalp with his fingernails. Crowley made another little noise, a happy, satisfied sound that made his heart ache with happiness.

"Not really an answer, but I'll assume it's positive."

"S'perfect," Crowley murmured.

He felt around blindly for a champagne flute with one long-fingered hand and sent it tumbling into the bath. It had been empty, but when Crowley fished it out it was full to the brim with expensive wine once again. He took a good, long sip and held it up for Aziraphale, who let Crowley tip the delicious bubbles down his throat. 

"Thank you, darling."

Aziraphale put the flute to one side and gathered Crowley onto his lap. He was loose-limbed, floppy, more relaxed than the angel had ever seen him. He was beautiful. Aziraphale had always thought so, but he'd never seen him like this before, eyes half-lidded and body nestled softly against him. 

"Only one thing missing," Crowley said.

"Mmm? What's that?"

In answer, Crowley snapped his fingers lazily and a yellow rubber duck appeared, bobbing between the mountains of bubbles. It had sunglasses on.

Aziraphale snorted with laughter and kissed the top of his demon's head. 

***

Afterwards, Crowley had let Aziraphale dry them both with the big, fluffy hotel towels and carry him to bed, where he'd lavished attention on Crowley's cock until he'd almost cried. 

"Are you trying to discorporate me, angel?" He'd gasped, "because I'm pretty sure you're gonna suck my soul out through my dick."

Aziraphale hummed a happy affirmative in response, and after that Crowley hadn't been able to form full sentences.

Now they were lying together in the softness of the afterglow, the pale lamplight of the hotel room turning Crowley's hair to burnished copper and his skin to alabaster. Aziraphale supposed that the amount of oxytocin currently coursing through his veins might have something to do with how utterly breathtaking he found Crowley, but that simply meant that his corporeal form was, at last, in agreement with his heart.

"Are you going to sleep?" He asked, quietly, trying not to disturb Crowley should be prove to be already there.

"Nnh."

Crowley tensed a little, his soft back muscles becoming firm under Aziraphale's fingertips.

"What's wrong, dear?" 

"What could possibly be wrong?" Crowley asked, dodging the question, "I've just been extremely thoroughly touched by an angel."

"Darling," Aziraphale said. He didn't need to say anything else.

"Alright, alright." Crowley rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. "I don't sleep, that's all. Not anymore."

A tingle of shock ran through Aziraphale. That was very bad indeed; Crowley had always loved sleeping to the point that Aziraphale had occasionally had to wake him up because he was lonely. In his darkest times, Aziraphale had worried that Crowley cared more for sleep than he did for him. Even worse, Crowley had been hiding his sleeplessness.

"But you've certainly  _ seemed _ to be asleep. I mean, I've been next to you every night, even if I was asleep for part of it, and you haven't given any sign of being awake."

"Yeah. I'm good at just sort of switching off, I think it's a snake thing. I put the body on autopilot and just sort of...watch movies in my head, plan stupid schemes, think about you. It's not the same as sleep, though."

"You think about me?" 

Aziraphale could tell from the tone of Crowley's voice that he didn't mean a nice little fantasy. 

"Mmhmm. I'm always thinking about you, angel."

He scooted across the bed and wrapped an arm over Crowley's chest, where his heart was beating staccato and fast. 

"What specifically are you thinking about, my dear," Aziraphale coaxed, gently.

"Just stuff. Y'know. When you were gone. When I thought you weren't coming back. What if it happens again."

"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale held him tightly, let him know with his body that he wasn't going anywhere, "why are you thinking about that?"

"It's not by choice,  _ obviously _ ," Crowley hissed, "you think I wouldn't rather be sleeping peacefully than going mad with worry?"

"Of course, of course, I'm sorry, dear. I just meant to say that you needn't pretend to be sleeping at all. You could talk to me instead, or I could read to you if you'd like. It sounds like you've been torturing yourself and I don't really understand why."

Crowley made a sound that could have been a laugh or a sob. It was the sound of a secret tension leaving him, of his soul opening up just a crack. Aziraphale kissed Crowley's shoulder, where his cheek was resting against it. 

"Yeah, alright. I guess I could."

"Would you tell me why? I'm not upset, I just want to know."

This was a lie, Aziraphale was very upset at the idea that Crowley had been confining himself to a nightmare of reruns of Aziraphale's discorporations. But it wasn't important that Crowley know that, because knowing would only hurt him more, make him less likely to confide in Aziraphale again. So Aziraphale forced the pain of it to go away, for Crowley's sake. Crowley had done the same for him, after all, more times than he would ever be able to count.

"Ngh. Just wanted things to be normal," Crowley said, quietly, "didn't want you to have to deal with my shit on top of everything you've been through."

"It's not  _ your _ shit, dear," he said, feeling Crowley shiver at the profanity, "it's  _ ours _ . And dealing with it is something we need to do together, for both our sakes. From now on we are here for each other, no matter what. No more hiding. Agreed?"

"Yeah...agreed. Sorry."

Crowley stretched out luxuriantly, the tension bleeding out of him now that he no longer had a night of silent worry ahead of him. 

"Could you do the reading thing? That did actually sound relaxing."

"Of course," Aziraphale smiled. 

He got out of bed and fished out their pyjamas, along with several thick books. 

"I have a choice of Pride and Prejudice, Paradise Lost, or Lorna Doone."

"Ugh, I might actually fall asleep from boredom, angel. You can fling Paradise bloody Lost out the window for starters."

Aziraphale glared at him. 

"Pride and Prejudice it is, then. You'll like it, dear, I promise."

"Don't you have anything with sword fights or explosions," Crowley groaned. 

"My dear boy, you are  _ six thousand years old _ ." 

Crowley pouted dramatically. 

"I'm  _ sad _ , angel."

"Fine." Aziraphale threw Crowley's pyjamas at him. "I had this tucked away for an emergency, but if you insist on behaving like a child then I shall treat you like one."

He pulled out another book, a slimmer paperback with a black and white cover. Aziraphale handed it to Crowley and proceeded to dress in his tartan pyjamas in an excessively dignified manner. The buttons went all the way to his throat, but he highly doubted they'd stay that way until morning.

"The Princess Bride?" Crowley said, grinning, "Like the film?"

"Oh, it's much better. There's an additional layer of authorial silliness I think you'll enjoy."

Crowley settled his head into his angel's lap, 

"As you wish, angel" he said.

And Aziraphale was surprised to learn that  _ that _ was a thing he very much wanted to hear again.

**Author's Note:**

> There will be a silly little Epilogue to come for Palimpsest - featuring Hastur and Ligur, Pravuil, Jophiel and Gabriel, but I wanted to address a few things I didn't have time for in the main story.
> 
> Mostly how Crowley must be feeling after all of this and his plans for his little velvet box.


End file.
